Foreign language was my Achilles' heel in high school—to the point I began to come up with excuses to opt out of the class. Just before the first test in my ninth grade French class, I told the teacher that the school's foreign language requirement was against my religion. I explained that Man had tried to build the Tower of Babel, a challenge to God's superiority, and the LORD promptly responded to our arrogance by confusing men with various languages to prevent further collaboration. I said that my attempts to circumvent divine punishment by actually learning other languages was an affront to God. I informed that teacher that, while her desire to teach me to communicate with other cultures seemed well-intentioned, the school’s position on the matter was a violation of my religious freedom.
She didn't buy it. I had to take the test like everybody else.
Fortunately for me, I live in a culture where essentially everybody speaks only one language fluently. Hence a common joke you’ll hear if you do much traveling in Europe:
Q: What do you call a person who speaks two languages?
A: Bilingual.
Q: What do you call a person who speaks three languages?
A: Trilingual.
What do you call a person who speaks only one language?
[beat]
A: American.
And you know what? They’ve got us. Most education systems around the world teach students to communicate fluently in at least one language in addition to their own. One may cite the growing presence of English as a universal language as reason not to care about learning another. I think we're just lazy as a country, but that's a blog for another time.
One tool that may be helpful for Americans (or may possibly make us more lazy) is the number of instant text translators available online. Here's just one I found. They're incredibly simple to use. You just type in a phrase, select the languages "translating from" and "translating into" from a drop-down menu, and click enter. Presto. It spits out the expression in a different tongue. This highly-useful and possibly-blasphemous resource is like having an electronic interpreter at the click of a button. However, they are far from perfect. Case in point:
Several years ago, a friend in my fantasy football league posted a message on our league board offering backhanded condolences when I was eliminated from the playoffs. More specifically, he was disappointed that I lost before he had the chance to eliminate me himself. My team name that year was Evil Empire, and I jokingly presented my team as though it were a cold war-era Soviet machine. Keeping that theme, my fellow league member used an online translator to post his message in Russian:
Хорошая попытка. Я хотел был бы бить вас снова.
Translation: "Nice try. I really wanted to beat you again." But I only know this for sure because he confirmed it later. See, I don't speak fluent Russian—shocking, I know—so initially I tried to use the online translator to change the Russian back to English. I copied and pasted it exactly, and this is what came out:
"Good attempt. I wanted would be to beat you again."
Huh? That’s…interesting. Not surprisingly, the online text translator has some limitations. Most human interpreters will tell you there’s no such thing as an exact translation, anyway. It’s like trying to reproduce a clay sculpture with paint on canvas: You can represent the original in a different medium, but you can’t duplicate it. A later French teacher told me that, conceptually, it was better to think of it as though I were translating ideas, not words. That's probably why I struggled with foreign language in general: My inclination was to translate a sentence mechanically piece-by-piece, as if I were decoding a word puzzle.
Of course, it doesn’t work that way. And while the online text translators are more competent than most high-school freshmen, they still follow a finite set of grammatical and linguistic rules without any human discretion. So there's obviously going to be some bugs.
…Which means that if you try to translate a phrase from English, into another language, and then back to English, weird stuff happens—and hilarity may ensue. I decided to run a few test phrases through the translator to see what it would give me. I used the same English-to-Russian-back-to-English formula. The original is in bold, the translation in italics:
The quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog.
The fast red fox has jumped through a lazy brown dog.
I think I'll put these pants on.
I think, that I shall put on these trousers.
If it was God's intent that languages be a stumbling block to communication, rest assured that these translators don't pose any sort of challenge to His will. I ran a few holiday phrases that I thought might have some interesting results, this time using a few other languages as the intermediary:
Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh!
Russian: About, on what entertainment it should go in the open sled with one horse!
French: Oh that entertainment he must take up the opened sleigh in a horse!
German: Oh which fun it should ride in an einspännigen open sledge!
(Then, to add another kink in the hose, I went English-Russian-German-French-Spanish):
On what pleasure this must go in the sledge opened with a horse!
Heh. I was one of those kids who can have more fun with a cardboard box than any toy that might've come in it, so this simple device is potentially hours of entertainment. I decided that Russian seemed to produce the best results, and I was too impatient to start funneling every phrase through four languages, so I stuck with the English-Russian-English route. Here's a few more:
They never let poor Rudolph play in any reindeer games.
They never allow Rudolf's poor game in any games of a reindeer.
Frosty the snowman was a jolly, happy soul.
The frosty yeti was cheerful, happy soul.
Grandma got run over by a reindeer.
To the grandmother the reindeer moved.
OhMY. I could spend days running stuff through this thing. I almost feel bad, using a tool meant for good to create linguistic abominations like some mad language scientist. And it has applications far outside of Christmas carols:
How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
How many, the marmot wood North American could throw, if the marmot wood North American could throw a wood?
Here's a few translated phrases for you sports fans out there. See if you can guess the original:
Arrive after me! I am a person! To me forty!
Bears - the one who we thought, that they were.
I could not care less if the command struggles. I wish to kiss you.
How about a few favorites from movie and TV land?
The assumption, what? I have received a fever, and the unique instruction - it is more than handbell on a neck of the cow!
You are going to have a plenty of time to roll dubis when you live in a van downwards at the river!
And for a finale, how about the infamous answer given by Miss Teen SC:
I personally believe, that the American Americans are unable to make so because, h'm, some people there in our nation have no cards and, mm, I believe, that ours, mm, formation as, type, mm, Southern Africa and, mm, Iraq and everywhere as, type, and I believe, that they should, mm, our formation here with the USA should help the USA, mm, should help Southern Africa and should help Iraq and the Asian countries, thus we are able to create our future.
I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, um, some people out there in our nation don't have maps and, uh, I believe that our, uh, education like such as, uh, South Africa and, uh, the Iraq and everywhere like such as, and I believe that they should, uh, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, should help South Africa and should help Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future.
Yes, that was sneaky. I switched the original (italics) with the translation (bold). Be honest: Could you even tell?
So if you're looking to waste a little time over the next few days, and my blogs don't fit the bill, take the translator for a spin and see what twisted gems you can unearth.
Showing posts with label flashback. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flashback. Show all posts
February 23, 2009
Flashback Blog: Slaying the Dragon
Lent starts this week, so I thought it only fitting to revisit an adventure in self-denial. (Note: This blog was originally posted almost two years ago. I'm happy to report that Jay successfully made it through the ordeal with minimal psychological fracturing.)
Those who look for Jay online may have a hard time finding him after next week. He will be giving up his computer—outside of work-related needs, of course—for about a month. He's apparently decided he needs to break his dependency. I for one applaud Jay's self-initiated pseudo-lent.
"Good for you," I told him. "Admitting that you have a problem is the first step toward kicking an addiction."
"Is it also the last step?"
"Uh, no. That would be actually conquering it."
"Aw, crap. That sounds hard."
It is, I told him. And I should know. Not long ago, I had to come to grips with a similar demon in my own life. You can probably guess it: Caffeine. Liquid crack. Seattle C. Black gold. My life blood, for a while. I realized I had a problem one day when, while eating out with friends, I was duped into drinking decaffeinated Folgers crystals—on hidden camera, no less—rather than my normal coffee, and I subsequently flew into a fit of rage. I doubt that my reaction will be the take they use for the commercial, and I've likely worn out my welcome at Nonnah's for some time.
I hadn't planned on relaying the gritty details of my struggle, but I figure it could inspire others with similar vices to break free. You just have to say you're going to do it, accept the unpleasant side effects, and then jump in with both feet. It also helps to have people keep you accountable.
The sad part was having to throw out all my caffeinated beverages at the start, but I didn't want the temptation of them lying around. The first day wasn't too bad, but after that I began a slow spiral into full-fledged withdrawal. As some of you may have witnessed, it wasn't pretty...
Day 2: I felt tired, obviously, but only in the general I-didn't-get-enough-sleep-last-night kind of way even though I'd slept for nine hours. The headaches began soon after. I had trouble concentrating, I was dragging, and I chugged a lot of decaf coffee (yes, I know it has trace amounts of caffeine—that was one concession I gave myself). I'd hoped the psychological effect of drinking something warm would make me feel better. It didn't.
Day 5: I become irritable and generally no fun to be around. Katie asks me a question at work, and I throw a stapler at her—a twist on the usual exchange. A driver cuts me off going home from work, so I speed up and run him off the bridge and into the Congaree River. Simple tasks become difficult. The directions on the cup of microwavable noodles might as well be instructions on launching the space shuttle—in Cantonese. I begin to think that maybe my taste buds have become compromised one morning, only to discover halfway through my bowl of cocoa puffs that I'd doused it with V8 instead of milk. I try to go to the gym, but they ask me to leave after I fall asleep on the treadmill. I'm still trying to figure out how that happened. I decide that maybe if I increase my sleep habits to eleven hours per night, I won't be tired anymore. Wrong.
Day 9: I'm tired. My head hurts. I hate the world. I can't think straight. I can't blog. I can't work out like I should. I can't blog. I realize that if I don't cut back on the aspirin, I'll have to follow up lent with a detox for that, too. I smell coffee from down the hall and wonder if maybe just one cup would ease my pain. A small devil appears on my shoulder trying to tempt me. He looks like Juan Valdez in a cheap halloween costume. Come on, he says. Going forty days with just one cup is pretty impressive. What's the point of hurting yourself? No! Must not give in... People start looking at me strangely when they pass my office. Maybe because I'm shouting at the invisible devil on my shoulder.
Day 14: Reality has become fractured. All the world's a stage, and I am but an actor—butchering my lines, missing my cues, and generally being a nuisance on set when the lighting doesn't suit me. I throw a tantrum, demand better treatment and a bowl of blue M&Ms and chocolate milk with a whimsical twisty straw. Now. I hurl a platter of pastries across the set and inform the director (or is that my boss?—I can't tell anymore) that I'll be in my trailer whenever he decides to start giving his star fair treatment. For lunch, I eat a cold can of black beans and imagine that they're the coffee variety. For a moment—only a moment—I fool myself into believing they are. For that moment, it was wonderful. Then it was just plain disgusting.
Day 22: I am the walrus, koo koo ka choo. I flash in and out of lucidity. Nothing is as it seems. Is that Tony in his uniform arriving home from work? Or are government agents coming for me, now that I have intercepted their secret code written in cuneiform on my honey bunches of oats? Just to be safe, I hide in my room for three days until the black helicopters stop circling over my apartment. I craft a helmet from styrofoam peanuts and gorilla glue to prevent them from reading my thoughts via microwave transmitters. I rearrange my furniture into a barricade, sleep in the closet, and pass the time by lecturing Marxist economic theory to my shoes. My pair of Adidas Sambas plan a mutiny, but I overhear their cabal. On the fourth night, I feign sleep until they doze off, then seize one and use it to beat the other to death. A cruel and ironic fate, true, but they deserve no better, the traitors. I am finally flushed out of my barricade by a horde of ill-tempered, genetically-mutated tree frogs that only I can see. Jay is behind this, somehow. I know it. I'll get that treacherous, invisible tree frog-controlling scoundrel...
...
I woke up four days later in a dumpster behind Jammin' Java. I guess I was drawn to the smell. There's a lesson to learn in all of this: everything in moderation. Excess of caffeine can be dangerous, but apparently absence of caffeine can be equally traumatic—though psychadelically intriguing. Or, in the words of John Calvin, which I will now attempt (and likely fail) to paraphrase, "Our sin is usually not in what we want, but in that we want it too much." It's true. We too often polarize ourselves. There are lines that we know we cannot cross, true. But for many aspects of life, all or nothing are usually both pitfalls. We are, as one theologian put it, like a drunk who cannot stay in the middle of the road. We stumble into the ditch on one side, then climb out and proceed to stumble into the ditch on the other side. I suppose you can also think of these extremes as the gutters lining either side of our spiritual bowling lane. Let this be a lesson to you.
I must now prepare to encounter similar psychotic breaks when Jay finally pulls the plug on the computer. Help me help him—if you see him online, kindly ignore him. It's for his own good. When you see him, encourage him. And remember that he has to go through hell to get out the other side. If he starts looking at his shoes in a distrusting manner or raving about tree frogs, don't fret. It's not pretty to watch, but it's a sign that the healing has begun.
Those who look for Jay online may have a hard time finding him after next week. He will be giving up his computer—outside of work-related needs, of course—for about a month. He's apparently decided he needs to break his dependency. I for one applaud Jay's self-initiated pseudo-lent.
"Good for you," I told him. "Admitting that you have a problem is the first step toward kicking an addiction."
"Is it also the last step?"
"Uh, no. That would be actually conquering it."
"Aw, crap. That sounds hard."
It is, I told him. And I should know. Not long ago, I had to come to grips with a similar demon in my own life. You can probably guess it: Caffeine. Liquid crack. Seattle C. Black gold. My life blood, for a while. I realized I had a problem one day when, while eating out with friends, I was duped into drinking decaffeinated Folgers crystals—on hidden camera, no less—rather than my normal coffee, and I subsequently flew into a fit of rage. I doubt that my reaction will be the take they use for the commercial, and I've likely worn out my welcome at Nonnah's for some time.
I hadn't planned on relaying the gritty details of my struggle, but I figure it could inspire others with similar vices to break free. You just have to say you're going to do it, accept the unpleasant side effects, and then jump in with both feet. It also helps to have people keep you accountable.
The sad part was having to throw out all my caffeinated beverages at the start, but I didn't want the temptation of them lying around. The first day wasn't too bad, but after that I began a slow spiral into full-fledged withdrawal. As some of you may have witnessed, it wasn't pretty...
Day 2: I felt tired, obviously, but only in the general I-didn't-get-enough-sleep-last-night kind of way even though I'd slept for nine hours. The headaches began soon after. I had trouble concentrating, I was dragging, and I chugged a lot of decaf coffee (yes, I know it has trace amounts of caffeine—that was one concession I gave myself). I'd hoped the psychological effect of drinking something warm would make me feel better. It didn't.
Day 5: I become irritable and generally no fun to be around. Katie asks me a question at work, and I throw a stapler at her—a twist on the usual exchange. A driver cuts me off going home from work, so I speed up and run him off the bridge and into the Congaree River. Simple tasks become difficult. The directions on the cup of microwavable noodles might as well be instructions on launching the space shuttle—in Cantonese. I begin to think that maybe my taste buds have become compromised one morning, only to discover halfway through my bowl of cocoa puffs that I'd doused it with V8 instead of milk. I try to go to the gym, but they ask me to leave after I fall asleep on the treadmill. I'm still trying to figure out how that happened. I decide that maybe if I increase my sleep habits to eleven hours per night, I won't be tired anymore. Wrong.
Day 9: I'm tired. My head hurts. I hate the world. I can't think straight. I can't blog. I can't work out like I should. I can't blog. I realize that if I don't cut back on the aspirin, I'll have to follow up lent with a detox for that, too. I smell coffee from down the hall and wonder if maybe just one cup would ease my pain. A small devil appears on my shoulder trying to tempt me. He looks like Juan Valdez in a cheap halloween costume. Come on, he says. Going forty days with just one cup is pretty impressive. What's the point of hurting yourself? No! Must not give in... People start looking at me strangely when they pass my office. Maybe because I'm shouting at the invisible devil on my shoulder.
Day 14: Reality has become fractured. All the world's a stage, and I am but an actor—butchering my lines, missing my cues, and generally being a nuisance on set when the lighting doesn't suit me. I throw a tantrum, demand better treatment and a bowl of blue M&Ms and chocolate milk with a whimsical twisty straw. Now. I hurl a platter of pastries across the set and inform the director (or is that my boss?—I can't tell anymore) that I'll be in my trailer whenever he decides to start giving his star fair treatment. For lunch, I eat a cold can of black beans and imagine that they're the coffee variety. For a moment—only a moment—I fool myself into believing they are. For that moment, it was wonderful. Then it was just plain disgusting.
Day 22: I am the walrus, koo koo ka choo. I flash in and out of lucidity. Nothing is as it seems. Is that Tony in his uniform arriving home from work? Or are government agents coming for me, now that I have intercepted their secret code written in cuneiform on my honey bunches of oats? Just to be safe, I hide in my room for three days until the black helicopters stop circling over my apartment. I craft a helmet from styrofoam peanuts and gorilla glue to prevent them from reading my thoughts via microwave transmitters. I rearrange my furniture into a barricade, sleep in the closet, and pass the time by lecturing Marxist economic theory to my shoes. My pair of Adidas Sambas plan a mutiny, but I overhear their cabal. On the fourth night, I feign sleep until they doze off, then seize one and use it to beat the other to death. A cruel and ironic fate, true, but they deserve no better, the traitors. I am finally flushed out of my barricade by a horde of ill-tempered, genetically-mutated tree frogs that only I can see. Jay is behind this, somehow. I know it. I'll get that treacherous, invisible tree frog-controlling scoundrel...
...
I woke up four days later in a dumpster behind Jammin' Java. I guess I was drawn to the smell. There's a lesson to learn in all of this: everything in moderation. Excess of caffeine can be dangerous, but apparently absence of caffeine can be equally traumatic—though psychadelically intriguing. Or, in the words of John Calvin, which I will now attempt (and likely fail) to paraphrase, "Our sin is usually not in what we want, but in that we want it too much." It's true. We too often polarize ourselves. There are lines that we know we cannot cross, true. But for many aspects of life, all or nothing are usually both pitfalls. We are, as one theologian put it, like a drunk who cannot stay in the middle of the road. We stumble into the ditch on one side, then climb out and proceed to stumble into the ditch on the other side. I suppose you can also think of these extremes as the gutters lining either side of our spiritual bowling lane. Let this be a lesson to you.
I must now prepare to encounter similar psychotic breaks when Jay finally pulls the plug on the computer. Help me help him—if you see him online, kindly ignore him. It's for his own good. When you see him, encourage him. And remember that he has to go through hell to get out the other side. If he starts looking at his shoes in a distrusting manner or raving about tree frogs, don't fret. It's not pretty to watch, but it's a sign that the healing has begun.
January 21, 2009
Flashback Blog: Forgiveness and Forgetfulness
A new year is an opportunity for a fresh start: resolutions, goals for improving self, and sundry other well-intentioned promises that we have no better chance of keeping than had we made them in mid-July. Personally, I’d rather avoid making resolutions altogether than make one I don’t trust myself to keep. However, I think this is a proper chance for me to “resolve” some mistakes from the past year. I’ve stepped on toes and put my foot in my mouth as much as any man, but 2008 was in many ways a banner year for yours truly. The new year seems like as good a time as any to go back and apologize for those infractions I’ve let slide to this point. It’ll help me head into 2009 with a clearer conscience.
Thing is, I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and I don’t want to turn this into an exercise in awkwardness. No sense belaboring the point, especially since many of the people I’ve wronged have likely forgotten about the transgression anyway—or failing that, have learned to turn a deaf ear to my insipid comments and general tomfoolery.
So I’ve decided to mail out apology cards to those I’ve wronged this past year. And, in an effort to keep the exercise thoughtful yet light-hearted, I’m modeling them after a poem I read in literature class a few years back. See if you remember this gem from William Carlos Williams:
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
------------------------------
It’s simple. It’s elegant. I don’t know that it rightly qualifies as a poem, but it serves the purpose. Critics tend to look past the basic scene and question the speaker's tone. Is it sincere remorse, or is it a vindictive, backhanded swipe at a housemate? Bah. The point is, the speaker made an effort to rebuild a bridge between himself and the owner of the plums. That’s really all you can ask of him, and all I’m trying to do.
For any who may be inspired to try something similar, here’s a sneak peak at a few of my apology cards:
To my roommate Jay,
I have eaten the frozen beef burritos that you were probably saving for lunch, dinner, or possibly breakfast. Please forgive me. I was hungry and didn't have time to go to the store before my television show started. The burritos weren't impressive. Very cardboard-y. Please get a different brand next time.
------------------------------
To my friend Michael,
Please forgive me for stealing your car while you were at the movies—a car which, I now realize, you were intending to use to get home. It was fun to drive and cornered well. I hope your date went ok otherwise.
------------------------------
To my coworker Katie,
In retrospect, it was wrong of me to frame you for dinging the boss’s car in the parking lot. But you are an invaluable member of the staff, and for me it might be the last straw. I am sorry. If it makes you feel any better, it was quite a hassle for me to find the touch-up paint matching your car to apply to his door. As a peace offering, I’ll let you have the rest of the bottle to fix the area on your car where I hacked it with a chisel.
------------------------------
To the kid I encountered on the beach in July,
I am sorry for mercilessly kicking down the sandcastle you were building. Your hitting me with sand was an accident, and I'd had a bad week. I had no right to subject you to frustrations that should have been directed at my boss, my mechanic, the IRS, public radio, AOL Time Warner, Jake Delhomme, that man at the post office that cut in front of me and wouldn't admit it, the management at my apartment complex, Greg Biffle, that rude telephone customer service agent for Capital One, the State Tourism Board (defacing a public monument, my foot!), the local weatherman, and that pompous scalawag that calls himself the chairperson of the South Carolina Midlands Gardening Club. I was angry at them, not you. I will return your wake board if you give me an address to mail it, and I will even throw in a toy pail and shovel to replace the ones I hurled into the ocean. I feel really bad for making your sister cry. Sometimes grownups throw tantrums, too. Don't be like me.
------------------------------
------------------------------
Wow. I haven’t even mailed the cards, and I feel better already. I suppose that even I, like the speaker from Williams' poem, could always improve my reconciliation skills. To be honest, I can't say which is harder: asking for forgiveness or giving it. The first requires swallowing a lot of pride, and the latter takes persistent effort. In Matthew 18:21-22, someone asks Jesus if he should forgive his brother 7 times. Jesus replied he should forgive him 70 times 7, which I always interpreted as a Biblical way of saying some outrageously large number (translation: "gajillion"). I'm learning that can mean someone who commits a gajillion transgressions, 490 personal insults, or even 2 unkind words on one thoughtless occasion. If necessary, you have to forgive those two words a gajillion times.
I'll confess I've gotten angry just remembering things that people did or said to me years ago—stuff I'd forgiven them for. It shakes me to know that such things can even still bother me. On the flip side, I know things I've said and done in the past that are still sore spots for the people I hurt, even though I’ve been forgiven. Until I figure out how to permanently forget things that I've forgiven, I have to forgive again, and again, each time it creeps back into my mind—and hope I'm shown similar mercy.
After all, sandcastles and cars and frozen burritoes can be replaced. It's the words that stick like splinters.
Thing is, I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and I don’t want to turn this into an exercise in awkwardness. No sense belaboring the point, especially since many of the people I’ve wronged have likely forgotten about the transgression anyway—or failing that, have learned to turn a deaf ear to my insipid comments and general tomfoolery.
So I’ve decided to mail out apology cards to those I’ve wronged this past year. And, in an effort to keep the exercise thoughtful yet light-hearted, I’m modeling them after a poem I read in literature class a few years back. See if you remember this gem from William Carlos Williams:
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
------------------------------
It’s simple. It’s elegant. I don’t know that it rightly qualifies as a poem, but it serves the purpose. Critics tend to look past the basic scene and question the speaker's tone. Is it sincere remorse, or is it a vindictive, backhanded swipe at a housemate? Bah. The point is, the speaker made an effort to rebuild a bridge between himself and the owner of the plums. That’s really all you can ask of him, and all I’m trying to do.
For any who may be inspired to try something similar, here’s a sneak peak at a few of my apology cards:
To my roommate Jay,
I have eaten the frozen beef burritos that you were probably saving for lunch, dinner, or possibly breakfast. Please forgive me. I was hungry and didn't have time to go to the store before my television show started. The burritos weren't impressive. Very cardboard-y. Please get a different brand next time.
------------------------------
To my friend Michael,
Please forgive me for stealing your car while you were at the movies—a car which, I now realize, you were intending to use to get home. It was fun to drive and cornered well. I hope your date went ok otherwise.
------------------------------
To my coworker Katie,
In retrospect, it was wrong of me to frame you for dinging the boss’s car in the parking lot. But you are an invaluable member of the staff, and for me it might be the last straw. I am sorry. If it makes you feel any better, it was quite a hassle for me to find the touch-up paint matching your car to apply to his door. As a peace offering, I’ll let you have the rest of the bottle to fix the area on your car where I hacked it with a chisel.
------------------------------
To the kid I encountered on the beach in July,
I am sorry for mercilessly kicking down the sandcastle you were building. Your hitting me with sand was an accident, and I'd had a bad week. I had no right to subject you to frustrations that should have been directed at my boss, my mechanic, the IRS, public radio, AOL Time Warner, Jake Delhomme, that man at the post office that cut in front of me and wouldn't admit it, the management at my apartment complex, Greg Biffle, that rude telephone customer service agent for Capital One, the State Tourism Board (defacing a public monument, my foot!), the local weatherman, and that pompous scalawag that calls himself the chairperson of the South Carolina Midlands Gardening Club. I was angry at them, not you. I will return your wake board if you give me an address to mail it, and I will even throw in a toy pail and shovel to replace the ones I hurled into the ocean. I feel really bad for making your sister cry. Sometimes grownups throw tantrums, too. Don't be like me.
------------------------------
------------------------------
Wow. I haven’t even mailed the cards, and I feel better already. I suppose that even I, like the speaker from Williams' poem, could always improve my reconciliation skills. To be honest, I can't say which is harder: asking for forgiveness or giving it. The first requires swallowing a lot of pride, and the latter takes persistent effort. In Matthew 18:21-22, someone asks Jesus if he should forgive his brother 7 times. Jesus replied he should forgive him 70 times 7, which I always interpreted as a Biblical way of saying some outrageously large number (translation: "gajillion"). I'm learning that can mean someone who commits a gajillion transgressions, 490 personal insults, or even 2 unkind words on one thoughtless occasion. If necessary, you have to forgive those two words a gajillion times.
I'll confess I've gotten angry just remembering things that people did or said to me years ago—stuff I'd forgiven them for. It shakes me to know that such things can even still bother me. On the flip side, I know things I've said and done in the past that are still sore spots for the people I hurt, even though I’ve been forgiven. Until I figure out how to permanently forget things that I've forgiven, I have to forgive again, and again, each time it creeps back into my mind—and hope I'm shown similar mercy.
After all, sandcastles and cars and frozen burritoes can be replaced. It's the words that stick like splinters.
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